Poetry Friday: Odes

I always do odes with my eighth graders at Thanksgiving.  I think I've started about four posts with that sentence so far on this blog.  (Here are my previous ode-related posts.)  We read several examples, and some of them write one. 

Here's a wonderful one, Ode to a Box of Tea, by Pablo Neruda.  It starts like this:

Box of tea

from

elephant country,

now a worn

sewing box,

small planetarium of buttons:

you brought

into the house

a sacred,

unplaceable scent,

as if you had come from another planet.

You can hear my brother reading the whole thing here.  

If you need some odes and don't have any Pablo Neruda books on hand, here's a link to a nice pdf collection you can start with, including the full text of the Ode to a Box of Tea:  Odes.

Why not write an ode to something you're thankful for?  And check out today's Poetry Friday roundup.

Poetry Friday: Beach Music

Last Saturday we went to the beach.  We went because our neighbors were having a party on Saturday night, and when they have a party, nobody in our house sleeps.  There aren't noise ordinances where I live, so the best way to handle it, remain on good terms with the neighbors, and sleep, is to go away somewhere.  When that somewhere is the beach, so much the better.

We slept peacefully and had a great time, but during the day, there was music playing most of the time.  On Sunday the morning peace was shattered by a DJ blasting out Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust."  Repeatedly.  At mealtimes in the hotel restaurant there were many musical offerings, such as "Turn Up the Love."  (This lyric made us giggle: "We're breathing in the same air/ So turn up the love...."  Our paraphrase: "You exist and so do I!  Turn up the love!"  Seems like a pretty low set of requirements to hook up with someone.)

But the one that amused us the most was a song called "Give me everything."  You can watch it here.  The lyrics, subtly, request, "Tonight I want all of you tonight/ Give me everything tonight/ For all we know we might not get tomorrow/ Let's do it tonight..."  The first time this song played, I commented, "Hey!  It's gather ye rosebuds while ye may!"

So in honor of our beach music, here's Gather Ye Rosebuds...

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
   Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
   Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 
   The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
   And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
   Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry.

So yeah, we might not get tomorrow, yo.

We also thought of Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."  Robin Hood Black posted it here back in September with appropriate musings about carpe diem and poetic invitations.  Marvell starts out:

Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime. 

He goes on to explain that they don't have world enough and time, and in fact, turn up the love! You can read the rest, expressed far more beautifully, here.

I don't really have any profound conclusions to draw here, but as I commented on Robin's post in September (linked above), I think it's funny when people talk about poetry as something for sissies.  So much of it is about seduction.   My daughter asked whether I thought these poems, by Herrick and Marvell, were effective in their day, and I said, "Oh yes." I find them more effective than "Give me everything," for sure, but maybe that's just me.

Turn up the love and have a great Friday!  Here's today's roundup. 

Wandering in my Neighborhood

Rachel at Djibouti Jones recently learned the French word flâner, to wander without a goal, and encouraged us to become flâneurs in our own neighborhoods and write about the experience.  Today she's featuring my post about my neighborhood.  See with fresh eyes, she said, but that was a little harder to do than it seemed.  You can read my attempt here.  

Poetry Friday: Dinner with a Friend

Over the summer, my family and I got to have dinner with a friend from way back, someone we hadn't seen in years.  He and his wife (whom we hadn't met) joined us at an Indian restaurant one evening during our travels.  Afterward I wrote this poem. 



Dinner with a Friend, July 2014

You talk at dinner about what you’ve been reading,
A book on the geology of Tennessee. 
You tell us about the four layers of rock in the earth
And how you can see millions of years of history
And find fossils of ocean creatures along the freeway.
You talk about the New Madrid Fault
And how a giant earthquake there like the ones in 1811 and 1812
Would destroy Memphis, Nashville, St. Louis…
In 1811 the shaking rang church bells in Montreal.
Oh, and, you say, a book about the problem of evil.
And I smile and say I remember
That’s what you were reading the last time we talked about books
Years ago when we were all in our twenties
And most of our lives hadn’t happened yet,
All those earthquakes real and figurative.
I don’t know about you, but back then I had a strange idea
That the world would pretty much stay the way it was,
That the problem of evil was mostly an intellectual one
To be discussed over our kitchen table or yours
Rather than a battleground of pain and blood,
And that the forests we hiked through and the roads we cycled
Were there to stay, solid under our feet.
These days it’s easier for me to imagine everything changing,
Buildings falling, landmarks gone, bodies in the streets,
Ocean creatures swimming down highways in a landlocked state.
I know now that someday soon we’ll all be gone.
That thought does make me shudder a little,
But it also focuses my attention on the delicious naan I’m eating right now
And how good it is to see you again.






Here's today's roundup.  Happy Poetry Friday!

Poetry Friday: Yes

Yes
William Stafford

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could you know. That's why we wake
and look out--no guarantees
in this life.

Here's the rest (and you can listen to Garrison Keillor read it). 

It's so true -- no guarantees.  But if you clicked through, you saw a stanza full of bonuses.  

Linda is hosting today's roundup here.

Poetry Friday: Death, Be Not Proud

Next week will be the sixth anniversary of our loss here at school of a beautiful, popular, fit, twenty-five year old teacher.  She went to bed one night and didn't wake up the next morning.  We were stunned, all of us.  That week I read this poem with my students.  My grandmother had recently died, and my brother-in-law had sent me the poem, which I had read before, but which was fresh in my mind and so appropriate for the occasion.  Since I thought Donne might be a bit much for my middle schoolers, I wrote my own paraphrase, too. 


Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)
by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.


Death, don't think you're all that, even though some have said you're mighty and dreadful - you aren't. You think you're defeating those who die, but that's not the way it is, and you can't kill me, either. We get pleasure from rest and sleep, which are just imitations of you - won't we get even more pleasure when we die? As soon as good people die, they get rest for their bodies and freedom for their souls. You, Death, are a slave to many things - fate, chance, rulers, criminals. You hang out with poison, war, and sickness. If we want to sleep, we can always take Tylenol PM and get a better rest than you can give us, so what do you have to be proud about? After a short sleep, we'll wake to eternal life, and you, Death, won't even exist any more. Death: you're going to die!

This post is pretty similar to the last time I shared this poem, and at that link you can find links to the original event, including my musings about middle school and mourning.

Here is today's roundup.  

Poetry Friday: Dessalines Day

Today in Haiti we have a peaceful, quiet day off school to celebrate Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who was anything but peaceful and quiet. He was brutally treated as a slave, and he in turn was brutal to his enemies. He had the nickname "The Tiger" because of his ferocity in battle and

"Fearing a French resurgence and the reinstatement of slavery that would accompany it, he ordered the massacre of approximately 5,000 of the island’s white men, women, and children declaring 'I have saved my country. I have avenged America.'"

The effects of slavery on this world are horrifying and long-lasting. In honor of Jean-Jacques Dessalines, let's keep fighting slavery of all kinds wherever we find it.



Here are the lyrics to the songs Sara Groves is singing, her version of an old spiritual.  I hope you can see the video; my internet is so slow today that I really can't be sure. 

Hold on, hold on
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on
Well, the only chain that we can stand
Are the chain of hand in hand
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Got my hand on the freedom plow
Won't take nothing for my journey now
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Paul and Silas bound in jail
Got no money for to go their bail
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on
Paul and Silas thought they were lost
The dungeon shook and the chains fell off
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Freedom's name is mighty sweet
And one day soon we are gonna meet
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on
I got my hand on the gospel plow
Won't take nothing for my journey now
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

The wait is slow and we've so far to go
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on
The wait is slow and we've so far to go
Keep your eyes on the prize

Only chain a man can stand
Is that chain of hand in hand
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on
Ain't no man on earth control
The weight of glory on a human soul
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

The wait is slow and we've so far to go
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on
The wait is slow and we've so far to go
Keep your eyes on the prize
Keep your eyes on the prize

The wait is slow and we've so far to go
Keep your eyes on the prize
Keep your eyes on the prize
The wait is slow and we've so far to go
Keep your eyes on the prize
Keep your eyes on the prize
Keep your eyes on the prize

When you see a man walk free
It makes you dream of jubilee
When you see a child walk free
It makes you dream of jubilee
When you see a family free
It makes you dream of jubilee
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Photo Source: article on Jean-Jacques Dessalines from Wikipedia.

This is a repost of my Dessalines Day offering for 2011.  Today's Poetry Friday roundup is here.  

Reading Update

Book #50 of 2014 was Cinder, by Marissa Meyer, and #51 was Scarlet, the second in the series.  Now I'm waiting for one of my students to finish with Cress, the third one, so I can read that one too.  I'm really enjoying this fun sci-fi series with cyborgs, space travel, a deadly plague, and a fairy tale twist. 

I Always Loved You, by Robin Oliveira, was book #52 of the year.  I have been wanting to read this ever since seeing the Degas/Cassatt exhibit at the National Gallery this summer.  I read The Private Lives of the Impressionists, by Sue Roe (brief review in this post), first, since I wanted to know the historically accurate story, and also because I had it on hand.  Oliveira's book adds some imagination to the account of Degas and Cassatt, but I found her version very convincing.  Other very important characters are Berthe Morisot and Edouard Manet, and we see the two unconventional pairs finding happiness, artistic challenge, and frustration in their complicated relationships with each other and the rest of the Impressionists. 

My goal for this year was fifty-two books, and I have several more weeks of 2014.  Here's my last Reading Update post, and it includes links to the other ones I've done this year. 

Poetry Friday: Pangur Ban

My daughter got a kitten this week.  She named her Pangur Ban, and so far we don't know if she will live up to her famous namesake.  She mostly hides from us, coming out only to eat, drink, and use her litterbox.  A promising detail: one of her favorite hiding places is on my daughter's bookshelf, behind the books.  Perhaps she will make a literary kitty after all.

Here are several versions of the Pangur Ban poem that inspired her name.  The original was written by an anonymous Irish monk in the 9th century, and many poets have translated it.  The monk compares his work of writing with Pangur's work of catching mice. 

Here is Robin Flower's translation, the first one I heard and fell in love with when I was a child.  It begins:

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

Click through to read the rest here.

While that one will always be the definitive version to me, I really love Seamus Heaney's translation, too.  Here are some later stanzas from that one:

With his unsheathed, perfect nails

Pangur springs, exults and kills.

       When the longed-for, difficult

       Answers come, I too exult.

So it goes. To each his own.

No vying. No vexation.

       Taking pleasure, taking pains,

       Kindred spirits, veterans.

You can read the rest of it here.

And here's Leontyne Price singing Auden's translation, set to music by Samuel Barber.  

Our experience with cats is pretty much confined to reading about them, so we have a lot to learn about Pangur Ban the real cat.   And we'll start learning just as soon as she comes out from behind the books.

Miss Rumphius is hosting the Poetry Friday roundup today here.  Head on over to see what everyone else has posted! 

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

One of our teachers shared this poem by Wendell Berry in our faculty meeting this morning.  It seems so appropriate, as I get huge mounds of student work in today and plan to spend the next few days working and working and working to get it all done.  As Berry says, "And yet no leaf or grain is filled/ By work of ours..."

X
by Wendell Berry

Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat.

And yet no leaf or grain is filled
By work of ours; the field is tilled
And left to grace.

You can read the rest here.

And you can find the delicious Poetry Friday roundup here.

Poetry Friday: Process

I read a poem with my students called "Folding Sheets," by Madge Piercy.  (Here it is.)  Afterward we talked about activities that make us think of certain people.  Piercy's poem includes lots of sensory details, so we talked about those, too.  I challenged the students to write a poem that recounted a memory of doing something with someone, and in the course of the description, revealed a person and a relationship.

Then I decided to try it myself.

The poem was a lot different from the way I was planning in my head (a fact which became part of my minilesson).  I decided to write about going to church.  There was a period when I was a child when my family attended a church in Swahili.  Though we had lived in Kenya for a while, we lived in an English-speaking enclave, since my parents worked in education, and all education in Kenya was in English.  Our vocabularies contained some Swahili words, and my parents had studied the language, but my brothers and I couldn't understand enough to follow what was going on.  That was the church experience I decided to write about.

I started by brainstorming.

Not all these details wound up in the poem, but I worked hard to remember exactly how it felt to be in that place at that time.

Next, I tried a first draft.

I found that I wasn't really focusing on my parents, whom I had intended to write about.  (You can see my mother saying "Shh" in the first draft, though.)  Instead, I kept thinking about a song we used to sing.  In English, the song is "Pass Me Not."  You can see that I had already remembered it in my brainstorming.  It was "Unisipite" there, and it was "Unisipite" in my first draft, but actually it's called "Usinipite."  I had remembered it wrong, a fact I learned when I talked to my brothers. 

Because that was my next step: research.  I told my students that we think about research when we're writing something informational, but that I often do research for all kinds of writing.  In this case, it involved talking to my brothers (we had an extensive Facebook chat sharing our memories).  It also involved looking up "Usinipite" on YouTube and finding this fascinating video:



I watched this video off and on for the rest of the afternoon.  Not only was that the song (jazzed up slightly in this version), but LOOK at that white tie!  It could be the seventies again.

I decided I wanted to focus on that song, and so I continued researching by looking up the lyrics and downloading Lyle Lovett's version (unfortunately I couldn't find a video of him singing it). 

I thought more and more about that song, and how I was asking God, in Swahili, which I didn't even understand (we used to call the song "Unispite"), to minister to me, too, and not pass me by.  And I thought about how God did that, and how my childhood faith, instead of being stifled by those hours in church, was actually strengthened.

I'm not completely happy yet with the poem that resulted, but I shared it with my students anyway, as well as the process I went through: prewriting,  researching my own past, marinating the ideas for days, shifting the focus from my original intention.  Here it is:


Pass Me Not

Sunday morning found my family in a schoolroom for worship.
Dressed in our matching polyester outfits, my brothers and I
Sat at splintery, grafitti-ed wooden desks.
My hair was neatly braided
And the kids behind us pulled my blond pigtails.
It was hot.
A fly buzzed.
The Swahili words of the sermon buzzed too,
Swarming around our heads
As we wiggled
And our parents hushed us.

We sang Usinipite
Which we gigglingly called Unispite.
“Pass me not, O gentle Savior,”
Say Fanny Crosby’s English words, which I didn’t know at the time:
“Savior, savior,
Hear my earnest cry;
While on others thou art calling,
Do not pass me by.”
And somehow
He did call on me too.
And through the heat and the buzzing and the splinters and the wiggling
He passed me not.


The Poetry Friday roundup is here today. 

Reading Update

It's been a while since I have posted what I've been reading.  Here's the latest:

Book #36 of 2014 was Longbourn, by Jo Baker.  I've written before that I have a weakness for Jane Austen sequels, retellings, and knockoffs of all kinds.  I check them out of the library and even buy them, and am nearly always disappointed.  Not this time.  Baker is a wonderful writer in her own right, and is not just attempting imitation Austen.  This story has the same characters as Pride and Prejudice, but it's told from the point of view of the servants, who, as you might imagine, see things rather differently.  You'll never think of Elizabeth Bennet's six inches of muddy petticoat the same way after you have read the chapter devoted to doing laundry at Longbourn.  Austen is often criticized for ignoring the fact that her country was at war, but Baker doesn't ignore it at all (in fact, the war section got a little long and graphic for me).  The story is satisfying and thought-provoking, and also beautifully written.  Highly recommended for Austen fans.

Book #37 was Jane Yolen's Pay the Piper: A Rock 'n' Roll Fairy Tale, which she wrote with her son Adam Stemple.  This is inspired by the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.  Creepy!

Book #38 was another Trollope title, The Small House at Allington.

Book #39 was a reread, The Mystery of Marriage, by Mike Mason.  My husband and I read this around the time of our wedding (I can't remember if it was before or after).  This time I read it aloud to him, and we both enjoyed it and found much to talk about.  This isn't a perfect book about marriage, but it is poetically written and beautiful.  It's not a how-to book, but more a meditation on marriage.

Book #40 was The Testing, Book #41 was Independent Study, and Book #43 was Graduation Day, all by Joelle Charbonneau.  I bought this trilogy for my classroom, and it's being eagerly devoured now by fans of the Hunger Games books and other dystopic fiction.

Book #42 was Chasing Vermeer, by Blue Balliett.  I read this aloud to my eleven-year-old when he was sick, and we both thoroughly enjoyed it.  It's got art, mystery, secret codes, interesting characters, and lots of information.

Book #44 was Invitation to Tears: A Guide to Grieving Well, by Jonalyn Fincher and Aubrie Hills.  This was a quick and very helpful read, with implications for all kinds of loss and grieving.  I am also thoroughly enjoying the podcasts that the authors have been doing in their "read-along."  (You can find links at that post to all the podcasts.)

Book #45 was The Good Wife, by Elizabeth Buchan, a novel about a political wife in England.  It was mildly entertaining, if a bit forgettable.

Book #46 was not forgettable at all.  It was clever, brilliantly plotted, and mysterious, and I can't tell you a thing about it without giving the whole thing away.  It was We Were Liars, by E. Lockhart.

Book #47 was The Private Lives of the Impressionists, by Sue Roe.  I read this because of my fascination with the National Gallery exhibit about Edgar Degas and Mary Cassatt, which I had the privilege of seeing over the summer.  This book is so good; it reads like a novel, and it opened up the paintings for me.  Highly recommended.

Book #48 was Middle School is Worse than Meatloaf: A Year Told Through Stuff, by Jennifer Holm.  I got this for my classroom, and I think it will entertain my students.

Book #49 was Later, Gator, by Laurence Yep.  My son picked this one and read it aloud to me.  I'm surprised to find that it may be out of print. 

Here's my last Reading Update post, which includes links to the others from 2014.  Looks like I'll reach my goal of 52 books this year!

This post is linked to today's Saturday Review of Books.

Poetry Friday: Yellow Dress

I was looking for something recently and happened on this poem.  I clicked on it because I thought about my own yellow dress poem.  But this one couldn't be more different from mine.  And of course my eye was caught by the italicized "Port-au-Prince" at the beginning.

I like to focus on positive aspects of my adopted country, but I have to share this poem because it represents a common scenario for me - and by that I do not mean that I see this kind of sight frequently, but that I often see sights I can't explain, from a moving car.  I catch a glimpse of a moment in someone's life, and then it's gone, and I will never have the context for it or understand it.  I've written down many glimpses like that in my "Writing Ideas" file, and some I've turned into poems (like the one I shared in this post).  Here, Amy Beeder reflects on one of these moments. 

Yellow Dress

by Amy Beeder

Port-au-Prince

Girl on a heap of street sweepings high

as a pyre, laid on snarled wire & dented rim.

Girl set down among the wrung-out hides.

A girl who was coming from church. It is late

Sunday afternoon. Was it a seizure? Is it

destiny or bad luck we should fear? Weak heart

or swerving taxi? In Tet Bef by the dirty ocean

thousands crush past her without pausing

at the shrine of her spayed limbs; brilliance

like the flesh of lilies sprouting from the pummeled cane.

Is it possible to be lighthearted, hours later?

Days? To forget the yellow dress?

I am waiting for her mother to find her, still

wearing one white spotless glove (where is the other?),

my idle taxi level with her unbruised arm,

her fingers just curling like petals of a fallen flower

and how did it end?

You can read the rest, and hear it read, here.

Today's roundup is here, at the Poem Farm.

Poetry Friday: Naomi Shihab Nye on Teaching Poetry

I'm doing parent/teacher conferences today, so while I'm talking to parents about their kids' progress, here's Naomi Shihab Nye talking about teaching poetry, and how it's not about measuring, but about love.  Watch it; it's so good.




Here is today's Poetry Friday roundup.

Poetry Friday: Lead

Lead
by Mary Oliver

Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.

I read this poem this week in conjunction with Parker Palmer's words, and you can read them, plus the rest of the poem, here.  Palmer calls this "an invitation to heartbreak."  Just being alive is an invitation to heartbreak, it seems to me.  Are we willing? 

Here's today's roundup.

Poetry Friday: Hamlet Edition

I didn't intend to take a break from Poetry Friday, but here it is the end of the third week of school, and I see that I haven't posted since August 8th.  Those frenetic beginning days, when we're training and setting up routines and getting to know new names and faces, seemed to take all my energy.  It's been extremely warm, too, sapping my strength.

I wanted to share, though, about the very cool experience we had here in Haiti last night.  We were privileged to get to attend a wonderful production of Hamlet that was put on by the cast of Hamlet Globe to Globe.

Over two years, this troupe will be visiting every country in the world and performing Hamlet.  Last night they were in Haiti, country #39 of the adventure.  The audience was filled with our students, and we English teachers have been doing a lot of Q and A sessions about the plot and the language.

In honor of our visit to the theater, here's Hamlet's most famous speech.  To be or not to be, isn't that always the question?  We can choose to participate in life or stand aside.  We can choose to feel the pain of our lives and of the world, or we can numb ourselves.  We can "suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," or we can sleep.  I know Hamlet is talking about choosing to die, and there has been so much discussion lately about suicide and how some people feel driven to make that terrible choice.  I'm thinking more, though, of the choice we sometimes make to say no to life and experience, so that even while we are still alive, we are asleep, avoiding "the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to."

I want to choose, every day, to be.

Speech: “To be, or not to be, that is the question”

By William Shakespeare

(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)

To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.

Today's Poetry Friday roundup is here.

Poetry Friday: Holocaust Museum

I have been reading the news out of Iraq and Syria and despairing, learning of another genocide ignored by the world.  This time the victims are Christians and other religious minorities.  There have been Christians worshiping in Mosul, site of the Biblical Nineveh, for 1800 years, but now there are none left.  Other cities are equally empty of Christians, Yazidis, Turkmen. 

We say, "Never again," about the Holocaust, the one with a capital H, but how many small h holocausts have there been since then, that we seem unable to prevent or stop once they are in process, or do anything about except weep uselessly? 

I found a poem about a visit to the Holocaust Museum.  There are three people in the party, and one of them, a Jewish man originally from Warsaw, is blind.  It is a narrative poem, with the punchline in the last stanza, so be sure to click over and keep reading. 

Holocaust Museum

By Jane Shore
 

We filed through the exhibits,

Charlotte and I taking turns

reading captions to Andy.

Herded into a freight elevator,

we rode to the top floor,

to the beginning of the War

where we were on our own,

descending floor by floor,

year by year, into history

growing darker, ceilings

lowering, aisles narrowing

to tunnels like the progress

of Andy’s vision over the years.

In Warsaw, his family owned

Maximillian’s Fur Salon

like a little Bergdorf Goodman’s,

doorman and French elevator,

furs draped on the Persian carpet,

over the blue velvet Empire chairs.

 

Here's the rest. 

 

And here's tomorrow's Poetry Friday roundup.

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

My blog has been silent for a whole month now as I have been traveling, visiting friends and family in the US.  Yesterday I got home to Haiti and today I am savoring this last Friday of the summer, since I go back to work on Monday morning.

At the same time, I am sad for the end of the summer, and sad because this is my daughter's senior year, and will be full of "lasts", and sad because of the news of war and destruction and sickness around the world. 

Can I savor and be sad at the same time?  I think so.  This poem is from Wendell Berry's book This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems, which we acquired this summer.  It is in the 1999 section and labeled only with a Roman numeral. 

V

In Heaven the starry saints will wipe away
The tears forever from our eyes, but they
Must not erase the memory of our grief.
In bliss, even, there can be no relief
If we forget this place, shade-haunted, parched
Or flooded, dark or bright, where we have watched
The world always becoming what it is,
Splendor and woe surpassing happiness
Or sorrow, loss sweeping it as a floor.
This shadowed passage between door and door
Is half-lit by old words we've heard or read.
As the living recalls the dead, the dead
Are joyless until they call back their lives:
Fallen like leaves, the husbands and the wives
In history's ignorant, bloody to-and-fro,
Eternally in love, and in time learning so.


Here is today's Poetry Friday roundup.

Reading Update

It's halfway through the year, and I've read thirty-five books.  Here's the latest batch.

#20 was What We Talk About When We Talk About God, by Rob Bell
#21 was What Came from the Stars, by Gary D. Schmidt
#22 was The Doomsday Book, by Connie Willis
#23 was Curse of the Thirteenth Fey: The True Story of Sleeping Beauty, by Jane Yolen
#24 was Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, by Jamie Ford
#25 was Book Love: Developing Depth, Stamina, and Passion in Adolescent Readers, by Penny Kittle
#26 was The Milk of Birds, by Sylvia Whitman
#27 was I Was Almost Five, by Vida Zuljevic
#28 was The Living, by Matt De la Peña
#29 was Peanut, by Ayun Halliday
#30 was Just One Evil Act, by Elizabeth George
#31 was Introvert Power: Why Your Inner Life is Your Hidden Strength, by Laurie Helgoe
#32 was Relish: My Life in the Kitchen, by Lucy Knisley
#33 was The Lowland, by Jhumpa Lahiri
#34 was The Birth House, by Ami McKay
#35 was Trailing: A Memoir, by Kristin Louise Duncombe

Other books I've read this year:
 #1-#2
#3-#19

Poetry Saturday

Yesterday was another travel day for me, so no post, but here is what everyone else posted. 

Poetry Friday

Today is a road-trip day, and I am probably not going to get a Poetry Friday post written.  But here's today's roundup, so you can go read what everyone else is posting!  Happy Friday!

Poetry Friday: Chikungunya Revisited

I said a few weeks ago that maybe I would write my own chikungunya poem, and now I have. For anyone who isn't yet aware of this virus, here is some good information. Here is a recent summary of the situation in the Caribbean, and predictions of this nasty virus coming to the United States.

Everyone in our household except one has now had the fever (and yes, I've had it, too). My husband had a particularly bad case, and was the inspiration for my poem.

 Image source

My Husband Gets Chikungunya

Everyone’s getting it,
And then Steve does too.
The virus is a mosquito-borne history lesson,
A recap of all the injuries this body in its fifties has sustained.

The right arm that snapped while playing airplanes with Don
The summer between first and second grade,
Now aches as though Steve has once more been propelled through the air
And crash landed.

The two fingers broken in a car accident in college,
When, going too fast, he went off a bridge on a back road in Tennessee,
And the collar bone from that same impact,
Burn again with pain as he relives that night,
A blur of memory now:
Crawling out of his car;
The nurse fainting
As she held his bloody hand, nerves exposed;
Calling his mother.

Random knee injuries and ankle sprains
From years of basketball and softball
Return to haunt him
As he lies in bed, feverish and exhausted.

Some of these wounds predate me,
Like the conked head from falling out of a shopping cart as a two year old,
But some I was around for,
Like the broken coccyx on a cycling trip.
All, all hurt again,
As though to say,
Congratulations on surviving, zanmi mwen,
Tough old guy,
How many times could you have died already?
How blessed are you?

He moans, takes Tylenol, drinks the water I bring him,
And emerges,
Victorious,
Spent and covered in a rash,
From the ordeal of
Chikungunya.



Today's roundup is here.

Poetry Friday: Slowing Down

On Monday I finished up in my classroom, and I have spent the days since shifting into the rhythms of the summer.  We will be traveling, but for the moment I have been straightening up my house, exercising, hanging out with my kids, and reading.  During the school year, I feel as though I am stealing time to read, but in the summer I can relax a little, start in on the stack that has been accumulating by my bed. 

Today, as I was riding the exercise bike, I was listening to the Poem of the Day podcast (you can find it on iTunes).  I'm catching up on April's podcasts still, and on April 5th, Australian poet Mark Tredinnick is featured reading his poem "Eclogues."  This is a poem for the summer me: it's long, discursive, about work and family and landscape.  You can read the poem, and hear him read it, here.  The recording lasts just over eight minutes.

My dictionary defines eclogue as "a short poem, especially a pastoral dialogue."  It appears as though Tredinnick has written many eclogues.  I confess I had never heard of him before this morning, but I will be delving more into his work.

This poem describes Tredinnick's journeys back and forth from his house to the shed where he writes.  He illustrates for us his routine, the focus on work, the return to his family, and gradually, he talks about the country around him, and mortality (a friend who died, a friend who has cancer), and then he ends with a beautiful metaphor of landscape as poetry. 

It's hard to excerpt a poem like this, because the point is the whole, but here are some bits I liked:

5

Its balm inside and search again briefly for the frequency of family life

and I find it in the bath, my girl

                                               and our three children, sleek as seals,

and in that moment a truck passes on the road

and snaps the powerline from the eaves. The house shudders and we fall

back in time to candles and stories by heart and reading news from memory.

...

7

You’d call it a blessing if you hadn’t been woken four times

by minor deities, pyjamaed like children

                                                                             and frantic in the dark with oracles.

Why do our children not know how to sleep?

Do they fear we’ve left our waking late? At first light they dawn

and have you rise and lead them out into the story

8

The river has told the grass again, a parable the day has forgotten by nine.

And by ten, at your desk, you’ve forgotten it, too.

                                                                              A man so easily distracted

by himself. But what are you here for

and what do they love, if not the way you leave each day to change the world’s mind

and return with the night, your fire spent, your face lined with secrets?

 ...

21

But, listen: no one reads poems to learn how to vote. Verse can’t change

the future’s mind. You write it like rain;

                                                                              you enter it like nightfall.

It isn’t for anything; a poem is country,

and it needs you to keep walking it, and I walk out into it now, carrying my friend

and smelling the paddocky wind and feeling the rain cold on my face.

I'm so thankful for these summer days to slow down, read, think complete thoughts,  and maybe, eventually, if I can slow down enough, write something "like rain."

Carol is hosting the roundup here today.

Poetry Friday: Cleaning Up

My son remarked the other day, "You know what I hate about the beginning of summer?  Mom always wants everything to be clean."

It's true.  After nine months of constant focus on school, suddenly all my grading is done and I look around my house and see it a little more clearly.  Of course, there's all the cleaning to be done in my classroom, too.  And the metaphorical cleaning up as I reflect on the past year and all the messes I made, and wonder how I can do better next year.

I found this poem that expresses a bit of what I feel about the clutter taking over, and also the questioning about what stays and what goes, literally and figuratively.

Mother's Closet
by Maxine Scates

This is everything she ever closed a door

on, the broom closet of childhood

where no one could ever find a broom.

Here, layer upon layer, nothing breathes:

photo albums curl at the edges, books

she brought home from the library

where she worked, handled by thousands

of other hands before their final exile

where they’ve waited, paper and more paper

taking in the ocean air, about to sprout. 

 

You can read the rest of it, and listen to it, here.

 

You can find today's roundup here.  

Poetry Friday: Swamped

I'm swamped by grading today.  This was the last day of classes and I'm supposed to have everything posted by tomorrow evening so that kids know where they stand going into finals.  But go read what everyone else posted here. 

Poetry Friday: Chikungunya Edition

Gerald Weissmann writes here, "For an arbovirus such as Chikungunya to enter a new zone, three elements are required: a change in the distribution and/or survival of the insect vector; a change in fitness and/or infectivity of the virus; and a human who carries the virus into an area deficient in mosquito control."  Weissmann was referring to the outbreak of this decidedly tropical virus in Ravenna, Italy, in 2007, but all of those conditions have been met again, and Chikungunya is here, in Haiti, where I live.  It has crossed the ocean and it is wreaking havoc here, though it's only been on our side of the island for a couple of weeks.  You can read more about that here.

On May 2nd, I posted a Dengue fever edition of Poetry Friday, because that was how I had diagnosed myself.  I now think I probably had Chikungunya, and whether I did or not, now everybody does, including multiple people in my household.  When I googled "Chikungunya" and "poem," I got the article I quoted above, because later in the text, Weissmann writes that Dante died of malaria, which he described this way in the Inferno:

Like those who shake
Feeling the quartan fever coming on -
Their nails already blue, so that they shiver
At the mere sight of shade - such was I then...


Believe it or not, poems have been written about Chikungunya, too, including this one, which identifies the vector of the virus, the Aedes Egypti mosquito, an equal opportunity carrier which also likes to share Dengue fever with others. One of my colleagues wrote a poem from her sickbed, and posted it on Facebook.  Maybe when this gets done working its way through my whole family, I'll wax poetic about it too. 

I hope next week to write a Poetry Friday post with no trace of illness attached, and also soon to fill you in on my trip to New Orleans for the IRA conference.  Meanwhile, check out today's roundup.

Poetry Friday: Failing to Read an Important Novel

Once Again I Fail to Read an Important Novel
by George Bilgere

Instead, we sit together beside the fountain,
the important novel and I.

We are having coffee together
in that quiet first hour of the morning,
respecting each other's silences
in the shadow of an important old building
in this small but significant European city.

All the characters can relax.
I'm giving them the day off.
For once they can forget about their problems—
desire, betrayal, the fatal denouement—
and just sit peacefully beside me.

Here's the rest.

I'm off to New Orleans today for the IRA conference.  I'm hoping to see some Poetry Friday regulars there!  Meanwhile, Jama's hosting the roundup today, so it's bound to be delicious!

Poetry Friday: Dengue Fever Edition

Googling "dengue fever" and "poem" produces a surprising number of hits.  Unfortunately, most of the poems aren't in English.  And most seem to have to do with preventing dengue rather than with suffering from it.  It's too late, in my case, for the prevention.





Yes, I am at home from work today, covered with an itchy rash that is a symptom of dengue fever.  At least it is a symptom that usually shows up late in the illness, signalling that I will feel better soon.

Writers and poets get dengue too, as this 2011 article comfortingly (?) points out.  And here is a poem written about dengue in Mississippi in 1873.

That's all I have for today.  Be sure to visit Katya's roundup here. 

Reading Update

When my computer crashed recently, I realized I had lost my ongoing list of the books I had read since my last Reading Update.  I was able to reconstruct it, even before accessing my backup, but I realized I need to keep this information in more than one place!  I usually accumulate a significant number of books and wait to blog about them until I have time to do a mini-review of each one.  I decided to go ahead and do a list post, and then I can go back and do reviews if I want to.  So here are the books I've read recently:

Book #3 for 2014 was Night of Cake and Puppets, by Laini Taylor.

Book #4 was Call the Midwife: A Memoir of Birth, Joy, and Hard Times, by Jennifer Worth.

Book #5 was Call the Midwife: Shadows of the Workhouse, by Jennifer Worth.

Book #6 was Call the Midwife: Farewell to the East End, by Jennifer Worth.

Book #7 was Divergent, by Veronica Roth.

Book #8 was Insurgent, by Veronica Roth.

Book #9 was Allegiant, by Veronica Roth.

Book #10 was Keeper, by Mal Peet.

Book #11 was The Aviator's Wife, by Melanie Benjamin.

Book #12 was The Last Runaway, by Tracy Chevalier.

Book #13 was Remarkable Creatures, by Tracy Chevalier.

Book #14 was Among Others, by Jo Walton.

Book #15 was Claire of the Sea Light, by Edwidge Danticat.

Book #16 was Home Life, by Suzanne Fox.

Book #17 was Dreams of Gods and Monsters, by Laini Taylor.

Book #18 was Thrashing About with God: Finding Faith on the Other Side of Everything, by Mandy Steward.

Book #19 was Evolving in Monkey Town: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned How to Ask the Questions, by Rachel Held Evans.  Most of these links are to the format in which I read the book, but it looks as though the Kindle format of this one isn't available any more.  That's because it has recently been re-released under a new title,  Faith Unraveled: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned How to Ask Questions. 

And...it's a Poem!

Well, a first draft, anyway.  Here's the Progressive Poem with the final line:

Three Blue Eggs
Sitting on a rock, airing out my feelings to the universe
Acting like a peacock, only making matters that much worse;

Should I trumpet like an elephant emoting to the moon
Or just ignore the warnings written in the rune?

Those stars can’t seal my future; it’s not inscribed in stone.
The possibilities are endless! Who could have known?

Gathering courage, spiral like an eagle after prey,
Then gird my wings for whirlwind gales in realms far, far away.

But, hold it! Let’s get practical! What’s needed before I go?
Time to be tactical—I’ll ask my friends what I should stow.

And in one breath, a honeyed word whispered low—dreams—
Whose voice? I turned to see. I was shocked. Irene’s!

“Each voyage starts with tattered maps; your dreams dance on this page.
Determine these dreams—then breathe them! Engage your inner sage.”

The merry hen said, “Take my sapphire eggs to charm your host.”
I tuck them close—still warm—then take my first step toward the coast.

This journey will not make me rich, and yet I long to be
Like luminescent jellyfish, awash in mystery.

I turn and whisper, “Won’t you come?” to all the beasts and birds
And listen while they scamper, their answers winging words:

“Take these steps alone to start; each journey is an art.
You are your own best company. Now it’s time to depart!”

I blow a kiss. I hike for days, blue eggs pressed to my chest.
One evening’s rest, campfire low, shifting shadows brought a guest.

A boy, with hair in wild waves and eyes blue as the sea,
Says, “You’ve traveled far. What did you find—your best discovery?”

“I found a bird, I found a song, I found a word,” I say.
The hidden eggs, I make them known. “I’ve brought these on the way.”

We share an omelet and some talk; is my quest at an end?
For now my dreams dance along with a gentle blue eyed friend.

1 Charles at Poetry Time
2 Joy at Joy Acey
3 Donna at Mainely Write
4 Anastasia at Poet! Poet!
5 Carrie at Story Patch
6 Sheila at Sheila Renfro
7 Pat at Writer on a Horse
8 Matt at Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme
9 Diane at Random Noodling
10 Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference
11 Linda at Write Time
12 Mary Lee at A Year of Reading
13 Janet at Live Your Poem
14 Deborah at Show--Not Tell
15 Tamera at The Writer's Whimsy
16 Robyn at Life on the Deckle Edge
17 Margaret at Reflections on the Teche
18 Irene at Live Your Poem
19 Julie at The Drift Record
20 Buffy at Buffy Silverman
21 Renee at No Water River
22 Laura at Author Amok
23 Amy at The Poem Farm
24 Linda at TeacherDance
25 Michelle at Today's Little Ditty
26 Lisa at Lisa Schroeder Books
27 Kate at Live Your Poem
28 Caroline at Caroline Starr Rose
29 Ruth at There is No Such Thing as a Godforsaken Town
30 Tara at A Teaching Life   


It's been fun!  Let's do it again next year!

Line Twenty-Nine -- My Line, with Much Fear and Trembling

Oh, what to do, what to do?  My daughter, the same child who suggested the line "Suddenly, Ninjas!" when it was time for my line in the 2012 Progressive Poem, has been saying all along that I should take this one in a T.S. Eliot direction.  Something like, "These fragments have I shored against my ruins."  She also said maybe the eggs could hatch out an elephant-bird, like in Horton Hatches the Egg. 

I need to continue the conversation between the persona and the boy, I need to do something about the eggs, I'd like to go back to the airing out of feelings and peacock-imitating and freedom from rune-prognostications in the first few lines (something about how I chose this path, all alone, with no birds and beasts to guide me), I need to avoid starting some whole other thread that poor Tara will hate me for in the morning...

I am at a loss to know what to do with the three blue eggs.  If chicks hatch out, they must be fed and cared for, and I am at my campfire with no means to do that.  If I cook them, you will worry about salmonella, since these eggs have not been refrigerated and I have been clutching them to my chest for days.  (We don't refrigerate the eggs that come from our hens, but we also don't hike for days holding them.)  But then I thought, the merry hen talked.  The merry hen said to use the eggs to charm the host.  This is a magic world.  Get over practicality!  Think about the tattered maps, the dreams, the inner sage!  What would Irene do?

The fact is, we're almost out of poem.  There's no time to find another host, no time to reflect on those warnings in the rune, no time to make it all the way to the ocean in search, perhaps, of jellyfish.  I had to decide what to do.  I sat on the rock and emoted for a while, and then I decided.  I hope I didn't make a big mistake.



Three Blue Eggs
Sitting on a rock, airing out my feelings to the universe
Acting like a peacock, only making matters that much worse;

Should I trumpet like an elephant emoting to the moon
Or just ignore the warnings written in the rune?

Those stars can’t seal my future; it’s not inscribed in stone.
The possibilities are endless! Who could have known?

Gathering courage, spiral like an eagle after prey,
Then gird my wings for whirlwind gales in realms far, far away.

But, hold it! Let’s get practical! What’s needed before I go?
Time to be tactical—I’ll ask my friends what I should stow.

And in one breath, a honeyed word whispered low—dreams—
Whose voice? I turned to see. I was shocked. Irene’s!

“Each voyage starts with tattered maps; your dreams dance on this page.
Determine these dreams—then breathe them! Engage your inner sage.”

The merry hen said, “Take my sapphire eggs to charm your host.”
I tuck them close—still warm—then take my first step toward the coast.

This journey will not make me rich, and yet I long to be
Like luminescent jellyfish, awash in mystery.

I turn and whisper, “Won’t you come?” to all the beasts and birds
And listen while they scamper, their answers winging words:

“Take these steps alone to start; each journey is an art.
You are your own best company. Now it’s time to depart!”

I blow a kiss. I hike for days, blue eggs pressed to my chest.
One evening’s rest, campfire low, shifting shadows brought a guest.

A boy, with hair in wild waves and eyes blue as the sea,
Says, “You’ve traveled far. What did you find—your best discovery?”

“I found a bird, I found a song, I found a word,” I say.
The hidden eggs, I make them known. “I’ve brought these on the way.”

We share an omelet and some talk; is my quest at an end?

Line Twenty-Eight!

Today's line is contributed by Caroline Starr Rose, and tomorrow's line will be contributed by...me.  Ulp!


Three Blue Eggs
Sitting on a rock, airing out my feelings to the universe
Acting like a peacock, only making matters that much worse;

Should I trumpet like an elephant emoting to the moon
Or just ignore the warnings written in the rune?

Those stars can’t seal my future; it’s not inscribed in stone.
The possibilities are endless! Who could have known?

Gathering courage, spiral like an eagle after prey,
Then gird my wings for whirlwind gales in realms far, far away.

But, hold it! Let’s get practical! What’s needed before I go?
Time to be tactical—I’ll ask my friends what I should stow.

And in one breath, a honeyed word whispered low—dreams—
Whose voice? I turned to see. I was shocked. Irene’s!

“Each voyage starts with tattered maps; your dreams dance on this page.
Determine these dreams—then breathe them! Engage your inner sage.”

The merry hen said, “Take my sapphire eggs to charm your host.”
I tuck them close—still warm—then take my first step toward the coast.

This journey will not make me rich, and yet I long to be
Like luminescent jellyfish, awash in mystery.

I turn and whisper, “Won’t you come?” to all the beasts and birds
And listen while they scamper, their answers winging words:

“Take these steps alone to start; each journey is an art.
You are your own best company. Now it’s time to depart!”

I blow a kiss. I hike for days, blue eggs pressed to my chest.
One evening’s rest, campfire low, shifting shadows brought a guest.

A boy, with hair in wild waves and eyes blue as the sea,
Says, “You’ve traveled far. What did you find—your best discovery?”

“I found a bird, I found a song, I found a word,” I say.
The hidden eggs, I make them known. “I’ve brought these on the way.”


1 Charles at Poetry Time
2 Joy at Joy Acey
3 Donna at Mainely Write
4 Anastasia at Poet! Poet!
5 Carrie at Story Patch
6 Sheila at Sheila Renfro
7 Pat at Writer on a Horse
8 Matt at Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme
9 Diane at Random Noodling
10 Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference
11 Linda at Write Time
12 Mary Lee at A Year of Reading
13 Janet at Live Your Poem
14 Deborah at Show--Not Tell
15 Tamera at The Writer's Whimsy
16 Robyn at Life on the Deckle Edge
17 Margaret at Reflections on the Teche
18 Irene at Live Your Poem
19 Julie at The Drift Record
20 Buffy at Buffy Silverman
21 Renee at No Water River
22 Laura at Author Amok
23 Amy at The Poem Farm
24 Linda at TeacherDance
25 Michelle at Today's Little Ditty
26 Lisa at Lisa Schroeder Books
27 Kate at Live Your Poem
28 Caroline at Caroline Starr Rose
29 Ruth at There is No Such Thing as a Godforsaken Town
30 Tara at A Teaching Life